Page 161 of Sexting the Boss

He holds up a hand. “I’m not accusing. I’m just…laying out possibilities. You’re the one who always says trust needs proof. And Nina’s the only one around here who’s never had to prove it.”

I clench my jaw.

I hate that what he’s saying isn’t completely off base.

But if I believe it—if I let that crack in—I’ll have to admit I’ve left the door open for the devil.

And worse, I’ll have to admit that Sasha was right.

Again.

I say nothing.

And Roman doesn’t push.

But I feel the damage in the silence.

27

SASHA

“Sasha, you’re pregnant.”

The words drop like a brick in the middle of the sterile, overly white doctor’s office.

I blink. Once. Twice.

“I’m what?”

Melanie grips my hand so tightly I might lose circulation. She turns and stares at me like I just got hit by a truck. Which, to be fair, is exactly how it feels.

The doctor smiles gently like she didn’t just casually detonate my entire life. “Pregnant. Just about six weeks, based on your symptoms and the blood work. Congratulations!”

Congratulations.

That’s a funny word.

It feels like a punch.

“Oh my God,” Melanie breathes next to me, practically crushing my fingers. “Sash. You’re pregnant.”

“I heard her,” I croak, voice dry.

The doctor keeps talking—something about vitamins, follow-up appointments, prenatal care—but her voice blurs into static, like a radio losing signal.

I sit numb, staring at the chart, not really seeing anything.

It’s been a two weeks since Damien dropped me off like I was dry cleaning he didn’t want anymore. Two weeks of pretending to be fine. Two weeks of nausea, backaches, bloating, and crying while brushing my teeth for no reason.

Morning sickness? That name’s a joke. It’s an all-day, all-consuming, soul-draining nausea festival that doesn’t even have snacks.

My boobs hurt. My sense of smell is out of control. I cried over a dog food commercial yesterday. Dog food.

I’ve thrown up in my work bathroom. Twice.

I’ve thrown up at a crosswalk. Once.

I cried in a Walgreens because they were out of pickles. That one wasn’t even hormone-related. I just really wanted pickles.

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